


Archived

by awriterthatwrites



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Crane Hand Porn, F/M, Foreplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Fantasy, Shameless Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3708923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awriterthatwrites/pseuds/awriterthatwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The archives, heat, and nimble fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Archive

**Author's Note:**

> Well hello friends. Here’s my first little foray into this fandom. 
> 
> A humble nod to @JWAB and @CreepingMuse, because this ship doesn't exist without them. If it seems like there are blatant allusions to Point of No Return and Au Naturel, it's because there are. 
> 
> I love feedback like a fat kid loves cake.

#  Archived 

###  Chapter One 

It’s hot. Summer’s proved stifling in these paper-laden archives, air redolent with dust that Abbie swears goes back to 1772. She can smell the inkwell Washington penned his missives from; smell the must of Franklin’s fractured leaflets that crinkle every time the fan catches them; and Crane. She can smell Crane.

The worst of the ancient relics knocking around the joint. 

Worst because he’s a living, breathing archive; a repository of the fascinating and inane that trails her, regardless of her preference. Worst because he is intractably, inextricably shoved into that place within her she wishes was hers only to command. Worst because ever since she wrapped her arms around him in their _Quantum Leap_ moment, she can’t get the memory of his scent out of her mind. Pine and soap and battlefield soot, and wool. Soft, clean wool of The Coat in its prime, nestled into her nostrils as she’d held him; terrified of what the next hours would bring. 

It’s enough to make her crack her neck, as if she can shake him loose from her psyche; roll him out like a muscle kink.

Crane glances up, notes her shrug, and silently pushes the Advil bottle across the desk. She grins. It’s become their shared bottle – what he’s taken to calling “the Hallowed Dispensary” – and she’s refilled it more times than she can count. 

Abbie slides it back, knowing full well that instinct will compel him to pry the top off with that thumb of his – the one that loads muskets and ghosts over Rune-engraved panels – in a way that focuses entirely too much of her attention. She wants the distraction, she admits; welcomes it after useless hours buried in yet another arcane text. 

As if on cue, a curious, agile thumb skims the ridge of the cap, deftly lines the edges, and pops it open. Long, tapered fingers ensconce the contoured edge as the bottle's pushed back, sans cap, and Abbie watches as a fingerpad plays absentmindedly at the rim, circling slowly, methodically. Idly, she wonders if that's how he strokes himself; would stroke other areas of skin under his command. A long sturdy swipe over turgid skin; a prelude of pleasure to come. 

Her nipples tighten beneath a V-neck that has no room to spare, so she turns, cracks her neck again, and tosses back two pills. She chases them with a large enough gulp of Red BulI to elicit a muted click of the teeth from Crane.

“I’ll take care of my neck when you do something ‘bout that knee,” she says pointedly.

The sass in her tone raises an eyebrow. “Noted. Though my knee does not inhibit daily function the way your misplaced vertebrae do.” To prove the point, he tosses her empty can towards the trash, and she reflexively whips her head to catch the shot, seizing in pain as she turns. Abbie curses as she rubs her neck, choosing to ignore Crane’s pointed look as she buries herself back in her work. She’s so intent on ignoring him that she doesn’t realize he’s behind her. Not until she feels a steady puff of air at her nape, and a large, warm palm rest on her neck. 

She freezes. “Jesus Crane. Warn a woman.” It comes out breathier than she’d intended, so rather than belabor the point, she decides to shut her mouth and let him get on with it. It’s Crane after all; trying to deter him’s like trying to call off a dog from its hunt. 

And Abbie’s got no complaints if eases her pain. Her neck’s been bothering her ever since being thrown back into that room on her reverse-time-warp trip. She'd landed hard on her shoulder, and it hadn’t been the same since. Still, it takes her a moment to process the added heat at her back; his tall, looming presence that protects even as it engulfs, and the realization that his thumb and those obscenely dexterous fingers are now making their way along her spine.  


He’s methodical as he works, checking each disc like he’s Chiropractor Crane, board certified, stethoscope and all. Abbie can almost feel him frown, can picture his eyebrows draw together in displeasure as he niggles each delicate bone between long fingers. “As I thought,” he mutters, jostling one particularly painful spot. “Ever since that fall, your cervical discs have been _woefully_ misaligned...”

Abbie closes her eyes. She doesn’t give a good goddamn what’s off. All she cares about is the way he’s soothing the pain, pressing hard enough to relieve the ache that’s taken up permanent residence in her body. A sigh escapes. Crane tells himself it is a perfectly normal response to his salutary care.

It takes her a while to muster words. “Find anything else?”

 _Soft as Damascene silk,_ he thinks. _Fragile and strong, and impossibly warm_. His thumb, which he’s already scolded, slips deceitfully across her neck, reveling in the exquisite feel of the meet between nape and hair. The stillness of the air and added heat force his senses to absorb all of her at once – every scent, every Lotion, every slip of air that rolls off of her small frame. 

Without quite realizing, he’s leaned forward to drink in her scent like she’s the oasis and he’s the thirsty desert traveler; close enough so that when she sways back every so slightly, she finds herself flush against the tall lank of him. 

This is the moment she jolts, smooths her hair down and politely excuses herself. This is the moment he steps away, clasps hands behind his back, and pronounces his medical diagnosis sound. 

Instead, they remain fettered to one another, both his hands now at her nape, her head tucked against his neck, his nose nearly buried into her shoulder. His loosened hair brushes over an exposed clavicle. She shivers, and it thrums through him. 

Against the delicious swell of her backside, he feels himself harden. 

He swallows, abashed. Surely she must feel it. Surely, this is the time to shift. But before he can move a muscle, he feels her lithe fingers curl into the cotton of his pants, stilling his twitchy limbs. He presses forward – ever so slightly. Testing the new boundary. She presses back – ever so slightly. Confirming: yeah – this is real. 

A sigh escapes him, half-relieved, half-penitent, as they sway against one another, following an unheard melody. His hands are at her hips now – not pushing, not pulling – merely resting, five fingers splayed over round, glorious thigh encased in those infernally tight trousers. The heat of each pad sinks into her as if he’s touching bare skin, and her breath hitches, sure that whatever move he’ll make, she will surely follow. It would only take a press – a slight force of his thumbs upon the bent of her hip, and she’d be leaning forward, spreading herself over the table in blatant offering. 

He knows this, and she knows he knows this. The realization is enough to send a burst of heat between her thighs that adds to the discomfort of the slickness already there. She’s been wet since the moment he laid his hand on her, and her body cries out as she discreetly presses her thighs together, seeking a release it knows it won’t get. 

Crane’s been trying to hold steady amid this unorthodox turn, but even a soldier’s will can’t rein in instinct when he feels her thighs squeeze, the tense of her muscles sending delicious shivers of frisson coursing through him. He knows of the pressure between her legs; knows she needs a sturdy hand and capable fingers to ease her burgeoning desire. He imagines sliding a palm into the front of her trousers, parting the slick heat to press at her swollen button and sink his fingers deep within. He knows instinctively she’s hot and tight, and so very eager. As if to confirm his debauched thoughts, a breathe of a whimper escapes her, and it’s all he can do to not bend her over the table and sink into her here and now.

His manhood swells larger, unrepentantly hard and insistent, forcing a surprised gasp from the diminutive Leftenant. “Jesus, Crane.” He hears the shake in her voice. “Warn a woman.” He rumbles something about her making up her mind. They both let out breathy laughs, and the tension momentarily eases. 

His mouth finds her ear, hot breath rolling over the shell in precise words clipped by desire. “Never let it be said I do not follow where you lead.” 

“I’m not the one leading this dance,” she breathes. Her hands grasp at one of his large ones, bringing it up and over to splay on her heart. “It’s this, Crane. This is what we gotta go by.”

He resists the urge to cup the delicate swell of her breast, instead allowing his hand to drift over its steady thrum. It’s a strong heart; generous and selfless; earnest in its quest and dedication. Yet not so easily opened; not readily trusting – if not of others, then most assuredly not of itself. 

“And…” He falters, unable to glean her intention without seeing her face. “What does _it_ say, precisely?”

“Precisely? Dunno. Generally? It’s got reservations. Lots.” He feels her breath hitch as she pauses, her mind caught on a memory. He knows the one, for it is the same that has plagued him: Katrina on the cold wood floor, her lifeless body crumbling beneath his fingertips. 

But he had chosen, then. Would choose the same way again. 

No, he knows that is not her reservation. Not of his commitment to her or their Mission; their bond solidified and consecrated in that church. He knows, rather, that her hesitation comes from the aftermath. Of the days he’s since spent in silence, lost in thought, trying to trace the roots of his wife’s deception. Of the muttered tirades she’s caught, listening mutely as he rails at how a mind so driven by logic could be utterly senseless when it mattered most. Of the mornings she’s walked into the archives to find him slumped at the desk, bottle of rum emptied, glassy eyes staring into nothingness. 

When he finds his voice, it’s soft with guilt. “As well it should, Leftenant.”

“No,” she says, harsher than she means. “Not gonna play that game with you, Crane. The guilt card goes back in the pile. You need time. We both do.”

In response, Crane lifts her arm, pressing her small hand to his breast. Through his thin chemise, she can feel the dull rise of his scar, and beneath it, the steady rhythm that skips a beat at her touch. They stay that way a while; hands to hearts, back to front, acknowledging the losses, accepting the victories. Pondering the potentials. 

At length, his stomach growls, and it’s enough to break the spell. They slide apart to gather themselves. She fusses with her hair. He straightens his collar. She ignores the sizable bulge in his pants; he pretends to not inhale the scent of her arousal. 

Despite the heaviness in the air, he can’t resist throwing a barb as she ambles towards the exit, muttering something about needing air. “Is your neck improved, Leftenant?”

“Fuck you, Crane.”

He grins at her retreating frame. “Soon, Abbie,” he murmurs. “Soon.”


	2. The Map

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cabin, a map, and mutinous thumbs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hello, friends. Forgive the lengthy hiatus. Turnabout's fair play, so this time in the crosshairs: Abbie's mouth. 
> 
> Here's to sailing the doldrums of hiatus.

“Leftenant, I really cannot say.”

Abbie throws her partner a Look, unable to do much more given the large map in her arms. “Come on, Crane. We both know you’re gonna keep moving it. Just tell me how high.”

“I must insist – “

“Just – “

“I cannot _say_ because you cannot _reach_.”

This earns him a turnaround and, much to his chagrin, crossed arms replete with jutting chin. Immune to many forms of insult the Leftenant may be; but on the matter of her diminutive height, she takes no quarter.

Abbie opens her mouth to respond, thinks better of it, and pivots back to the frame. She refuses to be thwarted by this morning’s edition of Cranky Crane. He’d been moody since she’d walked in, all cross tone and knit eyebrows, muttering about the proper order of things “at the Weekend”.

Crane bites his jaw impatiently. He knows he’s being a prig. Had been since the moment she’d bustled in with her _drill bits_ and a replica of _The Magna Carta_ he had espied during one of her many _antiquing_ bouts, insisting that he redecorate the cabin in the wake of the events at the church.

He means to remake his life, and he will. But not today. For today is a Saturday, and Saturdays are meant for hiking and chopping wood and afternoon souses at the local alehouse.They are not for hanging maps in the cabins of dead wives and sheriffs, and most certainly not with petite Leftenants, who wander about in obscenely tight garments that leave little to the imagination.

Even now, he can see the faint outline of a nipple brazenly peeking through her _racerback shirt,_ and reckons he can near hear its taunts through the thin barrier. _How utterly unseemly,_ he grouses. _Horribly debauched_. _Completely mouth-watering_. Crane bites his jaw and rolls out his fingers, banishing the urge to lean down and suck the taut peak into his mouth - an urge made all the worse by her voice as it wraps softly around his frayed nerves.

“Crane. You OK?”

“Of course.” He throws his shoulders back to attempt some measure of propriety, and clasps his hands behind him, mindful of their proximity.

He has been careful, in the days following their interlude in the Archives, to abide by the Accord they have drawn up: a 40-day period of solitude during which they are to neither discuss The Incident, nor engage in unnecessary physical contact. He had confessed he still needed time to mourn the dead; she'd point-blank told him she needed time away from him. Like a dutiful soldier, Crane had duly obeyed their rules, eschewing all forms of contact to the point of near monasticism.

Except now, in these horribly tight quarters, he cannot escape her scent, nor her heat, nor her Looks, of which he is once again the recipient. She cocks her head to the side, eying him curiously. “Crane. I said: if you hold the map, I’ll drill.”

Nodding, he suspends the frame – just high enough out of her reach to earn him another Look – and waits as she marks the oak. He diverts his eyes, mindful of the straight shot down her shirt, and mulls the wall instead, wondering what has hung on its surface Before. Before the good sheriff was murdered; before Katrina’s betrayal; before they’d buried those they cared for most.

He feels inexpressibly wearied by these thoughts; wants nothing more than to lie on the couch and close his eyes and forget. Yet all traces of rest vanish the moment he sets eyes on the Leftenant and the several sharp nails that protrude from her lips.

_“Abbie.”_

Before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s snatched the offending bits of metal and slammed them onto the table with a resounding bang. The thousand-yard stare he’s been wearing all morning is gone, burned up by something feral. “If it is all the same to you, I prefer to not end the day in hospital.”

Abbie looks up at the ceiling and counts to ten. She shouldn’t have come today. Should have left him well alone. He'd been doing the whole “stiff upper lip” thing for weeks since Katrina; now made all the worse by the damn Accord. They haven’t talked – _really_ talked, since The Incident, and she wants desperately to ask – wants to _know_ things about him in the way she used to. But she has no right - not now. Not for a long while. So she opens her mouth to apologize: to tell him she’s sorry for the nails, for invading his space, for ruining Saturday Souses – but she can’t.

Because Crane’s thumb is pressed against her mouth.

At first, Crane follows her gaze, confusion giving way to embarrassment as he realizes his gaff. His digit is sunk well and full into her bottom lip, burrowed content as a pup in the silken, lush bed. _The Accord,_ he hastily thinks. _Must honor the Accord._ But as his thumb skirts along the lush bed, memorizing its texture and shape, Crane can't help but think that the Accord hasn't done a bloody thing. It hasn't kept his gaze from dropping to her mouth when he thinks she’s not looking; hasn’t stopped him from imagining the exquisite feel of it against his own; hasn’t blocked the fantasy of those perfect, swollen lips wrapped around his – 

_"Huuuuunnnnhhh.”_ Crane clears his throat and focuses on removing the offending digit. He tells it to go; commands it to abandon its post and fall back. Instead, he watches in utter bewilderment when – mutiny of mutinies – his other thumb flits up to join its counterpart. Together, they trace the lush curvature of her lips; skating over the ripe arch of the upper, and down to the sloping fullness of the lower. They linger at her jawline, entranced by the smooth skin beneath his calloused hands.

“Glorious,” he murmurs. He doesn’t realize he’s said anything until she dips her head, a flush warming the skin beneath his touch. He pushes again – a last, fleeting brush – and is rewarded with the barest press of lips against the pads of his fingers.

“Leftenant.” His voice cracks, hoarse with need. “How long…?”

“Twelve.”

Twelve days. Not even a fortnight since they’d struck their Accord.

Abbie feels the frustration thrum through him; it echoes her own. She’s worked hard to put the boundaries back up between them since their agreement. Has forced herself to stop touching him to grab his attention; has reluctantly put movie nights on hold; has even resorted to shitty softcore porn on several occasions, willing herself to think of anyone else in the dark, stifling his name in the pillow when she comes.

But she’s tired of being the enforcer. Tired of holding the damn line where he would cross it. So against all logic, she finds herself letting go.

Crane closes his eyes as he feels the skin under his fingers part, and loses breath when the hot, soft fullness of her lips descends over and down his thumbs. Soft, wet heat wraps around his fingers, suckling and teasing with unerring precision, and he emits a pitiful whine to rival the most prurient of schoolboys. He’s hard, unrepentantly so, and the rest of his body abandons its post to push itself against her small, siren form. 

In response, Abbie presses back, consumed by the sensation of his nearness. His touch is soothing and enervating at once; calming even as it excites, heat and friction and home. She finds her arms sliding up and around his neck, seeking an anchor, and he responds readily, lifting her against him. Her legs instinctively twine around his waist, nestling him into the notch at her thighs, and they collectively sigh in relief as he presses her up and against the wall.

“Here,” he declares, jostling her for emphasis, “Is the height for that map.”

She chuckles, weaving her fingers into the tangled mess he calls a ponytail, and rolls her hips against the sizeable bulge she feels through his breeches. “Right here?”

He pushes back, eliciting a soft gasp. “Exactly…here.”

Abbie closes her eyes. They’re playing a dangerous game. Violating boundaries that’ll take them down an uncharted path. A path she’s not sure either of them are ready for yet. But he is there, in that place she’s needed him to be for so long, and she’s wet – always so wet around him these days – that when he slides just so –

_“Crane.”_

She digs her fingers into his shoulders, steeling herself against the pleasure he’s stirring within. He’s hitting her there, right there, swirling his hips in a way that should be illegal for an uptight Puritan, so sweet and so merciless that she bites her lip, words threatening to spill from her mouth. _More_ , she wants to say. _More, more…_

“Shhhh.” His mouth is at her temple, fighting mightily to not thrust itself between her lips and silence the pleas even she does not know spill forth. Instead, he buries her moans in his shoulder, grinding against her in an unhurried pace he knows will soothe the looming ache within both of them. He grimaces at the furnace he can feel between her thighs. Those infernal trousers that are the bane of his existence do little to conceal the scent and heat of her arousal, and he closes his eyes against the image of her splayed out full and open beneath him, bare legs wrapped around his waist as he thrusts home, as deep as she’ll take him.

Abbie hitches against him as she feels him harden, his cock thick and alive through the rough cotton of his breeches. She longs to be filled, coiled tight around him as he impales her swift and hard, his tongue in her mouth and his body filling and surrounding her so that she’s completely consumed. She doesn’t know she’s said anything out loud until she feels Crane murmur in assent and increase the pace.

His words echo the rhythmic friction that builds between them; hot and dark promises that slip from his lips with the same rising fervor as his hips between her thighs. Abbie shuts down, everything going black as her focus turns within, to the rush in her ears and the deafening roar of her heart as their tempo crescendos. She digs into his shoulders.

“C-c-can’t.”

“Let go, Treasure,” he murmurs. “Let – ”

Nails claw into his abdomen as her thighs crush his hips, her small body contracting in a moment of tight suspension as she bears down and fights the wave. A long shudder, and then she’s gone. Keening against him violently, her perfect mouth bowing into an “O” as she arches against him.

 _“Crane_ ,” she moans, feeling herself clench emptily around nothing even as she reaches her bliss, at once devastated and relieved he’s not inside her. She wants this; more than this, him on her and in her and God, how can he still feel so good when he’s none of those things – and she shudders again, losing herself to sensation.

Abbie sinks her teeth into his shoulder as another waves hits, and the pain is enough to stave off his release. Crane welcomes it; is grateful to be sobered in the midst of her ecstasy. He doesn’t deserve this; not yet; not with her. So he simply holds tight and watches, enraptured by the relief and abandon he sees flit across her features as she allows herself to come apart in his arms.

***

It’s some time later when Abbie comes to. She finds herself on the couch, splayed across Crane’s lap, boneless and sated as his thumb works small circles at the base of her spine.

He’s silent, contemplative; still rock-hard underneath her. Her hand slides down between them. “I can…”

“No.” He grabs her wrist. Then, softer: “No, Abbie.”

“Crane.” Her voice holds a warning.

“Forty days,” he declares. “That was our agreement, was it not?” He holds up a finger at her Look. “And I intend to keep to it despite this…dalliance.”

_"Dalliance?"_

He pulls back to look at her – really look at her for what seems like the first time in days. “Abbie – Abigail,” he corrects. “If we decide…” – that earns him a devious swirl of her hips against his erection, hard enough to elicit a hiss – “When we decide…our course…I intend to come to you without barriers or hesitation. In complete awareness and fully present.” He falters, covering her hands with his. “Much as I wish it to be so already…I must confess that this fog in my mind persists without mercy.”

He traces her mouth with his fingers. “You do not deserve a half-wit adrift in his thoughts. You deserve focus. Devotion.” His voice drops an octave. “Worship.”

Abbie’s got no comeback for that. Not a damn word. So instead, she brushes her thumbs against his mouth and stands, dragging him up and towards the kitchen. “Forty days, right?”

He straightens. “Indeed.”

“Come on. We’ve got mini-muffins ‘til then.”

On cue, his stomach growls. “Oh?”

“You missed ‘em when I came in. You were too busy mangsting.”

“ _Mangst_ …?”

“A combination of male and angst. Teenage boys in this century do it a lot.”

This earns her a good-natured swat against her rear, and she squeals as she runs ahead to grab the bag. Crane watches her wiggle away. Twelve days down, twenty-eight to go. He sighs, adjusts himself, and takes comfort in the fact that he will at least see one base hunger satisfied this morning.


	3. Absolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this belated update. The S3 timeline change threw me for a loop. 
> 
> A motel room, FaceTime, and laundry night.

There’s a buzz in the background; the clank of ice against glass that suggests a bar. The fading lilt of a piano says it’s not the usual dive Crane frequents these days — something classier. A hotel, maybe.

Through her phone’s speaker, Abbie hears the unmistakeable gulp of a pint being downed and the sharp hiss of teeth as the hops courses through a habituated palate, the bitterness relished.

And then, in a tone stiff as his militia coat: “Miss Mills.”

Abbie surveys the laundry pile in front of her. _So. We’re back to that again._

Crane’d disappeared after that morning in Corbin’s cabin. No note, no forewarning. Just a blank envelope with a key under her door, and a voicemail stating he’d gone off on a “Tour of Indeterminable Length”. Since then, there’ve been a few texts; a brief phone call to arrange some logistics; his salutations always formal, always placing what had transpired at arm’s length. As if declarations of a tenuous love could be pushed aside and stored away, like toys that have been outgrown.

He clears his throat. “I take it the new Sheriff is briefing you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll inform me of any new developments?”

“Sure.”

Crane pauses; the hesitation of man who’s run out of excuses.

His original plan to ride out the remainder of their 40-day Accord away had initially seemed sound. He could think without the distractions of scent and heat that invariably heralded her presence. Could mull over the countless moments in which he had gravely erred in judgment; could remonstrate himself for his pigheaded blindness (surely a product of Oxford schooling); but most of all, he could freely indulge in the self-hatred he was so often drawn to these days; a rote flagellation of his person so harsh and guilt-ridden that he wondered if he hadn’t a strain of the Catholic in him. But it is now day fifty, and he is no closer to answers or abdication. He can only think on the sound of her cries and the feel of her thudding heart as it rocked against his in the confines of that wood cabin.

He runs his fingers along the bar top, imagining soft skin in its place.

“You are missed, Leftenant.”

Silence.

“Leftenant?”

“How much you been drinkin’, Crane?”

“I can assure you, I —” A hiccup interrupts him, and that’s Abbie’s cue to hang up. She doesn’t have time for this shit.

 _Beep-beep-beep._ She glances down. _“Ichabod Crane would like to FaceTime.”_

 _Hell no._ Their last video call had ended in awkward silence; he’d almost cried. She’s not gonna go down that road again; let herself get sucked into his existential bullshit; be the priest to his confessions; the blankie to curl up with only to be thrown off once dawn arrives.

Nope.

And then somehow she’s hitting “Accept”, and the screen comes alive with color.

Pixelated Crane peers down at her, dim in the low light of a cheap motel room. He’s sweaty, sunburnt, and unshaven; hair oily and half-clinging to his reddened skin. He looks like shit.

She wants to suck on him like a goddamn Tootsie Roll.

“Leftenant?”

“We talked about this. You really shouldn’t —”

“Time our Faces, yes.” He acknowledges the breach with a drunken nod, lucidity lurking faintly behind his gaze. “I…” His voice fades, patrician nose tilting down at her curiously. “What are you wearing?”

Fuck. If she’d known they’d be video conferencing, she’d have been smarter about the gear. As it stood, there was none. Not really. Unless a lace chemise counts. Subtly, she tries to lift a fallen strap up her shoulder, but his sharp eyes swivel and latch on to the movement, pupils wide in the darkness.

“Don’t.” The command is soft, tempered by the knowledge that he isn’t allowed to ask for this; shouldn't even come close to it.

“Crane. It’s late. Go to bed.”

“I am in bed,” he says irritably. “It is creaky and ill-suited for my height, and it does not have you in it.”

“Your choice. Not mine.”

Despite her rancor — perhaps because of it — he finds himself helplessly taken. His gaze sears through the phone, drinking in every dip and slope of her indignant frame: flashing eyes, pursed lips, the pugnacious tilt of her sublime jaw that begs for his mouth. He can’t see much below the shoulders; can’t see much of anything at all, really. But he will take whatever pittance she affords him, a pauper begging at the foot of a queen.

“A very wrong choice,” he concedes.

“You actually saying you were wrong about something?”

“Do you miss me, Abigail?”

The question throws her, and an unwelcome shiver wends its way between her shoulders at his tone. She hates that tone. Dripping thick and sweet through the phone like dark molasses, rich with arrogance and certainty. She hates her biology that’s hard-wired to process that low timbre like a clarion call, sending a sharp surge of longing through her, thighs to chest. Fucking biology.

“No.”

The shirt he’s wearing is loose at the collar. He slides a hand into it, feeling the heated skin as his eyes slip along her frame.

“Look at me and tell me.”

He watches the rise and fall of her shoulders as she sucks in a breath; the delicate curve of her fingers as they fan out over fallen lashes; the press of lips against one another as she tries to clamp down whatever’s clamoring to come forth. An eyes slowly crack open and turns to him.

“I don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Miss you.” It comes out more a hum than a word, breathier than she’d expected. He smiles slowly, and Abbie shifts, realizing for the first time that she’s wet; has been since he’d first called. Her hand’s on her belly, stroking the skin between shirt and shorts. There’s heat between her thighs she knows he can feel. Can feel him feeling it.

“Goddamnit, Crane.”

His hand passes over his trousers, once, twice. Grasps at his erection through his breeches to stifle it. He’s flushed; nearly panting, his soul as desperate for her pardon as it is for her body. “What would you have of me, Abbie?”

She bites her lip, arousal and uncertainty warring within. _Are we seriously doing this?_ She asks him silently. He nods, the movement curt with need, and her hand slides underneath the band of her shorts, calling up the desire that’s been in her mind since that day in the cabin.

“Everything, Crane. Show me.”

Confusion clouds his senses momentarily, unsure of what she means. And then he’s fumbling with the phone, propping it up so she can see all of him. “Like this?”

“Yeah.” She cups herself, undeniable heat throbbing hard and steady against her palm. “Shirt first.”

His fingers loosen the stays on the old cotton, his eyes boring into hers as he slowly removes the garment. Her eyes slip over him greedily, tracing the dip and slope of pale sinew; the tight curve of his arms as they enfold his broad shoulders. A hand flutters across the axe wound on his chest, and it makes her hurt for him.

She wants to imprint a new memory there with her tongue, lave a different history into the wound. She wants to climb him like a telephone pole and perch in his lap; sink her mouth into the sweat-laden hollow of his throat, lapping the wetness there like a thirsty cat. She wants to sink her hands into his oily mane, tugging and scraping until his skull is raw from her fingers. Abbie circles a clit swollen with need and nods to his hand working beneath the screen. “Keep going.”

Crane sits up, affording her a front-row view of his lap. He’s touching himself, massaging the insistent bulge that lays beneath a thin layer of brown cotton. Her eyes drink the sight in greedily, desperate for more.

She’s flicking at herself now, circling herself over and over as she imagines herself on him, straddling and rubbing against the coarse cloth, the feel of it electrifying against her sensitized center. He unfastens the buttons methodically, long fingers masterfully working at his fly. She imagines them inside her, pulling and curling the way they are now, soothing the ache deep within.

He parts the opening. Pauses. “You’re sure?”

“Fuck, yes.” Slowly, he pulls himself out, and Abbie has to stifle a moan. He’s thicker than she’d imagined; darker, a large, bulbous tip swelling from between long fingers. Her tongue hits the roof of her mouth reflexively as she imagines licking her way up the hard length of him, tracing heated skin with tongue and lips. There’s days of sweat and travel and suffering there, and she wants to swallow it all down, suck the pain like a salve to a wound.

A small moan escapes her. He nods, acknowledging her need, and slowly begins to pump. It’s a sturdy rhythm, slow and measured. She matches her strokes to his. “That…that how you like it?”

His jaw is slack, eyes riveted to her face as he shakes his head. Through a hazy sensory memory, she realizes he’s moving the way he did in the cabin. Slow, deliberate thrusts that had made her come like a banshee. He’s moving the way he thinks she’d want. She dips a finger inside herself, imagining it’s his. “Uh-uh. Show me, Crane. ‘Way you like it.”

He picks up the pace, spreading his legs wide to gain a sturdier rhythm. One hand searches beneath the thick thatch of curls for his balls, cupping and rolling as he moves. He’s pumping fierce and hard, skin reddened by the force of it, his eyes riveted to hers, harsh pants in the stillness.

“Talk, Abbie.” he mutters. “For the love of God, talk.”

Two fingers now inside her, not even the width of one of his. “I’m…close.”

She brings the phone close to her face, large eyes boring into his.

“More, Abbie. Tell me.” 

And then everything she’s kept bottled up is spilling forth, like water out of a broken faucet. “Want you, Crane, God, damn, I want you, fucking want you — inside, Crane, want you inside so bad…”

“Yes, Jesus. Abbie —” He’s breathless, neck straining with the effort as he pumps fiercely into his fist, imagining it’s her surrounding him, the tight, wet, haven he feels hovering at the edge of his consciousness. He feels it on some level; her desire to be filled, her need that propels tight, small whimpers to escape her with every breath, every vile curse she’s flinging at him.

“I hate you,” she moans, circling her clit, muscles fluttering, “I fucking...hate you...so much.”

“Yes, love,” he groans, her honesty propelling his climax. He feels himself tighten, and grips himself hard at the base. “Hate me. Hate me. Hate —”

“Crane,” she cries out, hips thrusting emptily into the air as she reaches her peak. Her body bends momentarily, suspended by a mindless pleasure — and then she’s crashing, hips rocking shamelessly against the bed as she imagines him above her, in her, buried and pulsing to her very core.

“Yes, Abbie — God, so beautiful, Abbie, yes — _Christ_.”

Abbie opens her eyes just in time to see him thrust up, pupils blown wide as he comes. He spills over his hand, messy and red and breathless as he shouts her name once, twice, and collapses, pulsing cock straining as it empties into nothingness. She circles her clit as she imagines licking him clean, down and around his balls and over his shaft until the delicious tip is between her lips, soft and wet and saturated with the flavor of him. She wants to swallow all of it, grant him the absolution he seeks.

But she won’t. She can’t. Not like this. Not yet.

So she lays amid a pile of half-scattered laundry and watches as he lies spread-eagle on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, chest heaving with the effort of recovery. He’s immobile, unblinking. At length, he turns towards her, eyes still dazed. “The cost of university in this century is rapacious.”

She's still heady from her climax, unsure she's heard right. “What?”

“Educating dependents is… ”

“I’m sorry — _dependents_?”

“That is what children are labeled on your tax forms, isn’t it?”

“Jesus, Crane.” Abbie falls against the headboard, covering her eyes. They haven’t even fucked yet, and he’s already thinking college tuition.

“You asked me once before, what I sought to escape. It is _this_. The inevitable truth of our journey. A path we cannot deviate from once it begins.”

“You wanna maybe start with being present for that journey before you start filing W-2s?”

“I am present.”

Her heart jolts a beat. She sits up. “What?”

“I arrived last night. I thought a call might be more prudent than a sudden and - perhaps…unwelcome visit.”

She notes her disheveled state. “Yeah. Not the problem."

“Abbie.” She hears the hesitation; the question he wants to ask but can’t. Her eyes drop to the floor, unsure of what she’s willing to relinquish in this seemingly endless battle between their fears. But she can’t be anything but honest; never when it comes to him.

“Come home, Crane.” He nods, relieved that even if it is not absolution, it is a permission to begin the journey.

“As you wish." He pauses. "There is one condition.”

“What’s that?”

His eyes rake over her deliberately. “You answer the door exactly as you are now. I’ll be there in a quarter hour.”

And with that, the line goes dead.


	4. Homecoming, Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crane arrives at Abbie's within the quarter hour, as promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been working to get this out quickly for all of you. Fueled by the engine of your feedback and the looming premiere of S3. 
> 
> Let's go to church together after this, ya'll.

“Leftenant?” Crane raps on the door, bewildered.

The Leftenant, it seems, has deviated from his instructions.

He had arrived not minutes ago, breathless and eager from the exertion of their video phone call, fingers twitching at the thought of her physical presence.

Yet upon his arrival, Crane has found the lights mysteriously extinguished from her windows, nary a hint of life inside the darkened abode. His phone calls have gone straight to voicemail. His shouts, increasingly urgent, have no audience save the pigeons suspended in the pines, staring dumbly as he paces across her porch, anxiety and agitation rising in equal measure.

Crane raps against the door once again, boldly spying through the glass atop the frame. “ _Leftenant_?”

Could something have happened? A late-night call from the station? A sudden lead in a case that’s pulled her away? Surely, she would have let him know. Surely. Or perhaps — _perhaps she’s done the sensible thing and withdrawn_ , he postulates.

It’s the far likelier scenario for the practical Leftenant, who has always been the more level-headed of the two. After all, they’ve barely spoken to each other in weeks, let alone seen one another; to end up on her doorstep, in this state, especially after he’d been the one to insist on the 40-day Accord, only to then disrobe in front of her like some common pintle-merchant over a video missive — well, it was madness, was what it was.

Completely off the hooks.

He should simply call for a taxi car service and —

The door is suddenly flung open, and there she stands, wearing an amused expression and the smallest pair of pyjamas he’s ever seen. Certainly nothing like the long gowns and demure robes of his day. A thin, lace camisole exposes bare arms and a mouth-watering sliver of skin at her mid-riff; petite shorts boldly reveal the sinful curve of lithe legs from ankle to thigh. _Very_ petite shorts, he amends.

Despite the delectable vision before him, he can’t help but grouse. “Where the Devil have you been?”

“Hey to you, too, Crane.”

He feels his skin prickle as her eyes rake over him: a slow sweep across his face, down his clothes — and up to somewhere around his shoulders, where they remain, hovering.

Crane is convinced he will explode from the pressure if she doesn't answer him soon. “What?” he snaps, batting the air around him. _Mosquitos? A plague? What?_

“You got a haircut.”

“...Yes.”

“Shame.”

He cocks his head, unsure of what she’s playing at. “How so?”

“Less to hold on to.”

Her eyes pin his at last, dark with mischief.

God help him, but he can’t resist to save his life.

He’s on her before she can draw a breath: grasping, lifting and shoving her against the wall with barely-contained furor. Crane pauses at the fleeting sense of dejá vû — of having doing this once already in a cabin and feeling conflicted throughout — but then her strong legs are sliding up and around him; crushing his narrow hips as if punishing him for his absence, and all he can focus on is how perfectly they fit together.

Her small hands sink into his hair and run over weeks’ worth of overgrown beard. He’d forgotten to trim it in the rush to come over, but it doesn’t seem to displease her; not in the least. He feels a pleasant rush as her finger pads delicately run over his face, tracing the hawkish planes of his features, so unlike the delicate lines of her own.

She curls her fingers into his hair as she arches against him. “Ready, Captain?”

Briefly, he searches her eyes to assure himself they both haven’t gone mad. She nods tightly in assurance.

And with that, he hoists her higher, filled with an insatiable craving for her mouth, and feasts.

Lips slide and seal against one another with voracious hunger; the hot, soft, swirl of mouth on mouth a dance somehow already known. It’s a hot, sluicing meet of lips and tongue; one that makes Crane inordinately grateful for sturdy hallway tables as Abbie bucks against him, nearly tearing down a hallway sconce in the process.

Arms snake about him as his agile tongue slides into the hot cavern of her mouth, thrusting with slow deliberation in a way that tells her exactly how he’ll move once he's inside her. Languid, heavy, rhythmic swipes that leave her gasping for air; gentle nips on her bottom lip that force a shock of heat from mouth to groin; and shameless dips inside the corners of her mouth, as if he can lap up absolution from somewhere within.

Crane breaks free for a breath, barely enough of a moment to meet her dazed eyes, before he’s sliding his mouth over hers once again, capturing her swollen, lush lips from another angle. It's an unrepentant act of conquest; one that Abbie gladly rises to meet.

She sucks obscenely on his tongue, branding him with her flavor. _Mine_ , she thinks, sinking her fingers into his shortened mess of hair. _Mine,_ she affirms, raking her fingers across his nape as she marks him with desperate need, and Crane moans, marveling at the inordinate grace that has allowed him access to this; to her, to them, to a brief, hallowed space amid the looming abyss.

Crane hums as he deepens the kiss, convinced that her mouth has been laced with some sort of narcotic. He cannot drink enough of her intoxicating flavor: sweet, light, and faintly reminiscent of coffee and jasmine. It is a concentrated form of that which he has inhaled in the stale confines of the archives, in the functional cocoon of her car, and in the precious rare moments when he’s been granted permission to touch her. But this time, there is no drowning, no accidental murder, no monster shepherding them towards death’s door.

This time, the access that is granted is of her own volition.

Crane glories in the freedom of it.

His hands trace along the delicate line of her jaw as he breaks their kiss, mouth eagerly latching on to suckle at the soft expanse of her neck. Her head tips back, granting him further access. He can have her mouth. Her neck. _Anything_ , she realizes wildly, as his mouth nips at her skin - she would gladly grant him anything, this man - this utterly infuriating, confounding, precious heart of a man.

His nose lingers in ticklish recesses; in her ear, her neck, her throat. He inhales deeply, knowing that from this time forth, this is now the smell of home.

“Abbie.” He whispers her name like a hallowed mantra; it skitters over her skin and shuttles through her hair, low and hungry, and bottoms out in her belly, flaring bright and deep. She pushes against him, shamefully wet; wet from before when he'd made her come on the phone; and wetter still as she'd answered the door, his low baritone echoing in her head as he'd commanded her to stay exactly as she was.

Abbie moans as large hands slide underneath her clothes, tracing skin and sinew, learning contours they’ve only dreamt of exploring. Crane slides both hands into the back of her shorts, glorying in the feel of her round, supple rear that bounces against his palms.

He growls at the thought of sinking his teeth into it, but is redirected by a muffled protest as her hands grab at his wrists.

Needy eyes pin him, conveying what words can’t. _Not there_ , she tells him, guiding one long hand to the front band of her shorts. _Here_. He pauses for a moment, resting his palm against a tight abdomen that flexes in anticipation. And then his fingers are sliding down her soft belly, past her hips, and into the heated thatch of curls at her center.

“Christ, Abbie.” She is a veritable furnace. Scalding hot and impossibly wet, swollen with the same unbearable need that throbs through his own veins. He parts her delicately, running his fingers through slick folds as he expertly brushes at the straining nub at her center. She gasps and arches as if she’s been struck by a live wire, body straining taught as she scrambles against him for purchase.

A curious finger circles her slick entrance, probes gently, and withdraws.

She sucks her teeth. “God, Crane…please.”

His lips quirk, unable to resist, as he does it again.

She wants to slap him. Wipe that goddamn smirk off his face with a solid backhand. But she can’t. All Abbie can do is part her legs wider and wait as he acquaints himself with her body; fingers gliding and flicking and pushing until she’s panting like a damn asthmatic.

And just as suddenly, she’s digging into his arms and moaning as a long, dexterous finger parts her and slowly thrusts in. Abbie gasps and squirms involuntarily as she adjusts around the thick intruder, so different than what she's used to; so unlike her short, small fingers that can only reach very shallow depths.

He begins to thrust, fingers stretching and scissoring as they explore the infuriatingly tight sheath that molds unrepentantly to his fingers, and a strange worry abruptly seizes his mind. She’s tight; incredibly so. Fleetingly, he entertains the possibility that there has been some sort of change in human evolutionary biology he has inevitably missed; that somehow, the fairer sex has collectively shrunk over the past several centuries; that impossibly, the brutish appendages that once served his kind are no longer in —

“Yes,” she gasps, swirling her hips hard, and raw male arrogance surges within him as Crane realizes with no small amount of relief that she isn’t in any way different; she simply hasn’t been bedded in a very long while. Perhaps nearly as long as he.

A fierce possession wells within him at the prospect of asking about previous paramours; now that he has access to this knowledge, does he really care for it? Would it make a difference, given that she is so eager and ready, and that he too might well finish before they've even begun? He's painfully hard; has been so since he'd seen her in that excuse of a night outfit. That he would be too eager is...

A commotion beneath his coat distracts him. Determined hands have snaked underneath his shirt to graze the hair at his chest, skate over sweat-soaked skin and trail across that damnable scar. Abbie spreads her palms flat over it, pads fluttering against the ridge.

His hand stills between her thighs. "What are you doing?"

"All you associate with this is...evil. Tribulation. I want it to also mean beginning. As much as it took you away from all you know...it brought you to me."

She presses into him, willing him to understand. He stares at her small palm against the paleness of his chest.

"A union," he says finally. "A homecoming."

"Something like that."

He gathers her close, pulling her tight against him as he rests his chin on her head.

"You are my home, Abigail Mills," he whispers into her hair. "No scar need remind me of that certainty."

They stay like this, enmeshed in one another, until the insistent throb in his trousers can no longer be ignored.

“Bedroom,” he murmurs.

"Nah," Abbie says, swirling against him as she plays at the front placket of his pants. “Don't need it.”

"Abigail."

Abbie can only watch in mute fascination as Crane brings his fingers to his mouth with deliberate lethargy, and slowly sucks on each one deeply, licking them clean of her flavor.

Her scent, pungent and heady, hangs between them. She lets out a shuddering breath.

And then he’s leaning in and whispering exactly what he means to do once he has her properly positioned, and her eyes go hazy from the image and her body pulses with the need for it, and then they’re slamming clumsily from wall to wall as he stumbles with her clinging to him, steps addled with lust and adrenaline, into the bedroom.


	5. Homecoming Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many pages of smut. Many.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALRIGHT. Much sorries for the delay. With the premiere and the Daniel Reynolds character and the adjustment of the timeline, peh. Loosely, this takes place sometime before S3 E2, but after she's back from Quantico. Vague allusions to Busty Ross, Danabbie, etc...
> 
> ALSO, there is a shout-out to that gif ya'll keep posting in the tumblrs of the shaking headboard...the banging bedpost gets a cameo, ya'll. #heathenry.
> 
> Enjoy. I'll be in the back row of church, saying my Hail Mary's.

* * *

They stumble into the room, barely making it past the doorway before she’s shucking off his coat, fingers plucking urgently at the strings on his shirt.

“Abbie,” he groans into her mouth, but she’s not having it.

Her small frame bullies him backwards, forcing him against the bed. He drops, slightly dumbstruck, barely has the time to take in that they’re here — her bed, her room, _this_ space — before he finds his lap full of impatient, demanding Leftenant.

Bare, supple thigh flanks his lean hips as she anchors him down, lips sucking unrepentantly at the strained tendons of his neck. Her arms ensnare him with a vengeful hold: snaking up and through his clothing, shoving back fistfuls of shirt, nearly tearing the seams.

Crane leans back, unsure, exactly, of what to make of all this.

The Leftenant’s fingers pluck madly at him with an insistence that borders on manic; her eyes, glazed and at half-mast, flit everywhere but his face.

A tassel snaps. She flings it aside and continues her assault.

He thumbs her chin. “Abbie.”

“Come _on_ , Crane,” she mutters. She fumbles at the placket of his trousers, seeking out the small buttons as she sucks fiercely on his neck. “Gotta get this show on the road…no telling when your next walkabout’s gonna be.”

Her tone means to be playful, but there's no mistaking the strain underneath.

He grabs her wrists, forcing her eyes up. “Abbie. Look at me.”

She groans internally, hating the way his voice goes soft. Like he wants her to listen. To really pay attention. She’s wet and he’s hard and when she rocks against him, she feels him twitch. _Why can’t they just fuck like normal people with unresolved issues — silently, with minimal eye contact?_

He smooths his palms over her arms until they’re cupping her shoulders, fingers nearly touching one another as they span her back. She is so very small, so very precious to him. _Does she not know? Can she not see?_

“I dunno, Crane,” she sighs, as if reading his mind. “I get it. The ghosting. The absence. You gotta admit, you can be impulsive. No telling what happens tomorrow.”

“ _Impul_ — “ He stops himself.

Ichabod Crane is not impulsive. He is the very antithesis. Logical. Strategic. Patient. And yet…

And yet the words of an age-old companion echo in his mind. That someday, some woman would cause him to forget his propriety and manners and do something abominably rash.

He blinks. “I can assure you, Leftenant. My impulsiveness is not born out of habit.”

She snorts. His eyes darken at her disbelief, enough so that he cups her face, blue fierce meeting skeptical brown. “It is because of you, Grace Abigail Mills. You are the cause of every infraction and delinquency that I perpetuate.”

And there — right there — beneath the doubt and the unvoiced hurt — he sees it. The fear. Not of him leaving again — but of what happens if he stays. Of what happens if this thing — this strange, halting _paso doble_ they've been locked into, is finally over.

"That why you left?"

He twines his fingers through hers. Loose, but strong. “In part, yes. But also…why I returned.”

Her forehead falls to his. A moment to steady herself. To take in the possibility of what he’s saying. What they might have a chance to build.

His thumb is on her back, painting circles as he waits. She closes her eyes, struggling to focus. He can’t possibly know the effect he has on her. The alternating swoop of nerves and peace that wash over at each caress. She knows he's trying to be good; trying to give her space and a moment to breathe, even as he watches her desperately cling to a cliff they've already jumped off of.

Her mouth is against his ear before she knows what she’s doing. She needs this, he needs this, and she’s _done_ trying to think her way out. “Then make up for lost time, Crane.”

He thinks he mutters a response, but it’s swallowed by a hot, urgent kiss. Hard and deep and possessive as she twines her fingers in his hair and he cups her frame, commencing a slow, criminal trail of exploration along her body. Palms slide greedily against her sides, memorizing the sensuous curve of hourglass hips; skim behind her back with covetous intent, tracing the feel of its soft expanse; and slide dangerously past the thin barrier of her clothing, slipping underneath like unrepentant thieves.

Abbie gasps as Crane grabs her hips and grinds her into him, his body now fierce and alive, and so very sure.

 _There's too much bloody choice_ , he thinks — what to caress, what to kiss, what to tease. But her breasts are achingly close to his mouth and he can feel the scrape of lace against his face as he plants wet kisses along her collarbone and sternum, and so he goes with the most logical decision, the most rational choice, and removes her top first.

The dusky peaks of her nipples strain against a luscious fullness he’s only imagined in the most debauched recesses of his mind; a mind he admits has woefully failed to capture reality, despite the lecherous advantage their height difference has afforded him. He pauses a moment to admire the way the peaks rise up like tiny soldiers at attention, insistent and puckered in the cool air. He cannot deny them, dutiful Captain that he is — cannot for a moment ignore their need. And so he presses his nose along the length of her, inhaling jasmine and sweat, and clamps his mouth over a straining peak.

Abbie moans, instinctively arching into him as he claims her flesh. His mouth is criminally hot, teasing and flicking with unerring dedication, swiping over and through and around in a way that shatters her; sparks a jolt between her legs with each obscene dance of tongue. She hates him for this; for how alive and electric he makes her feel. How incredibly bereft she’s felt in the time he’s been gone. How, if he ever leaves again, she’ll shoot in the goddamn kneecaps to prevent the yawning emptiness she’s felt in his absence.

She opens her mouth to tell him this, hopeful that she'll be able to wheedle the threat out between pants, but she suddenly finds herself flipped, legs being pulled up and around his thighs as Crane presses her into the bed and slides his very good hands beneath her shorts.

He squeezes and pulls, smooths and grips, roaming with not a small amount of possession; draws the scrap down and off with an alacrity that surprises both of them, sits back on his haunches, and stares.

Abbie can tell the moment Crane’s brain short-circuits. His jaw goes completely slack and his eyes glaze over, rendering the sharp blue a predatory black. He takes her in for a while, his expression a mixture of lust and wonderment as he basks in the bareness of her, eyes slowly raking her from head to foot.

She is utterly, ruinously breathtaking, and he will forever be burned by this knowledge.

He makes an attempt at words, but all that emerges is gruff breath.

It doesn’t matter. They’re past that now.

All that matters now is his large palms splayed against her legs, fingers prying them open as his tongue works miracles on the soft flesh. And then, his hands are sliding underneath her hips to anchor her to him, his feral eyes locking onto hers for the briefest of moments — seeking connection, permission — and then his swollen, red, mouth finally, blessedly, descends.

Abbie nearly arches off the bed at the first swipe of his slick tongue, hot and determined as it explores her sensitive flesh. She is shamelessly wet; so wet the sheets are soaked in it; so wet that he’s saturated in her scent. It burns into his neural net, searing into his eidetic memory. This is the taste of home. Of absolution.

Crane feels fingers grasp and pull on his head, attempting a semblance of control; of direction. But he won’t have it. He knows instinctively how to render the woman beneath him senseless; has known through careful observation of her laugh, her walk; the way she sasses and protects him in equal measure. He knows all of Abbie Mills’s tells, and he is unashamed to use them in this battle of surrender.

He laves her thoroughly, and listens smugly at the exhalation of held breath. He finds her small nub, tight and swollen with need, and sucks it firmly, glorying in her breathy whine. He languorously traces her folds and glides towards her pulsing center, where he wickedly thrusts his tongue in, and feels her clamp down around him.

An unintentional whimper escapes her. _Goddamn him_. He’s going to make her come, and she still doesn’t know if he’ll be there in the morning.

She hears herself whine pitifully as his beard brushes over-sensitized skin — gruff and deliciously coarse from weeks of travel. The thought of rug-burn on her clit briefly crosses her mind; of having to soothe aching skin with some sort of ice or balm or whatever the hell they use on women whose men don't fucking shave for months after exploring ancient tombs...but then, he’s anchoring her legs over his shoulders and bringing her flush against him, and she loses all train of thought.

He explores her for a while; mouth lazily stroking through slick flesh and tongue lapping at her like a desert dweller who’s found the oasis. He slides one long finger inside and rejoices at her surprised mewl; two fingers, and she’s arching against his firm hold, begging for him to finish her.

She hates herself. Abbie Mills doesn’t beg. Doesn’t normally say any of the shit that’s falling from her mouth, tumbling out of her like she’s got sex Tourette’s. But his fingers are deep, and _long_ , reaching that swollen place inside her that shudders with each passing curl of his digits.

“Crane,” she warns, fluttering around him.

“Come for me, love,” he breathes against her thigh.

 _No_ , she shakes her head. _Not like this._ She nearly tears his hair out by the roots as she drags him up, determination battling the addling haze of desire. “Need you…inside.”

His mouth is wet and ripe as he nods curtly, his cheeks flushed with exertion. She kisses him, hard and sweet, long enough so that she tastes her musky saltiness on him; long enough for him to pluck madly at his clothing, shucking off shirt and trouser.

And then, he’s blissfully, nakedly there, all of him pressed against all of her. It’s enough to draw a shiver from the both of them.

Abbie runs her legs up his strong limbs, each hair sending a spark of frisson along her smooth skin. She twines her arms around his neck as she meets his gaze, no longer afraid; no longer doubtful.

Her legs hitch up high around his waist, flexing in anticipation as he drowns himself in her wetness. He hisses at the feel of it; of the desire that’s pooled there for him. For them. Gratitude suffuses him, the half of him bewildered at having arrived at this moment.

He slides to her center, heavy with the weight of unfulfilled desire. They share a moment of breath, forehead to forehead as he positions himself, waiting for her to hesitate, to stop him, to tell him this is utterly wrong, to shake him awake from this fevered dream he’s wandered into.

He looks down at her, searching for an inkling of reserve. There is none. No tenuous boundaries, no second-guesses, no confusion. There is only heat, and skin, and throbbing, intractable want. He closes his eyes, preparing himself for their inexorable joining…

And a hand goes up. Pushes against his chest as large, bright eyes meet his.

She rolls them over, rises above him like a siren at the helm of a battle-ship, and slowly sinks down. 

"Fuck." Abbie tries to hide the shake in her breath. Despite her wetness, despite the Quantico flings, despite her own late-night explorations — she’s still unused to this. Unprepared for the tightness of fit. For all his bean-pole height, Crane is surprisingly thick; large enough so that she has to rock in slow, shallow strokes as she coaxes him into her body.

Abbie tries to keep her eyes on him; she really does. His pupils are blown wide, their color shot through with desire and utter surrender, and she can't remember the last time anyone's looked at her like this. But the sensation of him making his way into her body as much as he’s already made his way into her heart is too much. She hangs her head low, trying to quell the frantic bird beating at the cage in her breast; the bird that feels smothered, anxious; as if the cage is shrinking.

Rescue comes in the form a low baritone next to her ear, murmuring, comforting, soothing. Whisperings that release the death grip she has on his neck; that force air back into her small frame. It takes a moment, but Crane feels her rib cage hitch, her lungs expand as she draws in a breath, and then the long, deep sigh of surrender as she exhales and bears down in invitation.

He gratefully accepts, and groans in relief as he tilts up and drives himself into her tight depths. She is unthinkably hot and wet; clutching at him with a relentless fierceness that speaks of an unfailing determination to see this through; to let him in despite the clawing anxiety that grips her even now, even as she feels herself engulfing him completely.

He pauses a moment to take in her wondrous expression, the small twinges of discomfort, her bright, large eyes. And then his hands slide down to cup her ass as he thrusts up, and he begins a slow, measured pace designed to drive her completely insane.

Abbie moans and rocks back, meeting his measured strokes with languorous swirls of her own. He’s made her come like this once before in the Archives, fully clothed. It's gonna be even faster this time. She can already feel herself fluttering around him, muscles flexing and eagerly clasping as he hits places and moves in a way - _goddamn, how does he know that way? -_ that's already got her gulping for breath.  

Crane sinks deeper with a moan of relief, rocking himself into the tight vice that protests and welcomes him in equal measure. He is fleetingly grateful for his derelict mind and dedicated right hand; if he hadn’t brought himself to completion hours before on their video call, he is certain he wouldn’t have made it to this moment. She’s too tight, too wet, too glorious for any real restraint. His own heathen machinations have seen him survive endless days of unfulfilled desire; of thrusting vainly into the air, imagining just this scenario.

Yet, this time, when he thrusts, there is a body that bows above him. This time, nails clutch at his shoulders and rake across his back. This time, there are warm, shuddering depths that pulse around him at each measured stroke, urging him on towards blissful release.

Her hands run through his beard and ghost over his mouth. “More, Crane,” he hears her say. “More.”

Crane carefully palms the firmness of her plump rear as he moves within her. He is mindful of how small she is; how eagerly she closes around him; how, even at this vantage point, with her looming above him like a master conductor to their symphony, she is still delicate; a thing to be treasured.

There's a moment where she lets out a surprised “oomph”; a pause as he realizes he’s sunk to the hilt, nestled against her womb. He freezes, unsure if he’s hurt her; if this is too much. But then she’s falling against his chest, tender and hoarse as she tells him to take over; and he's rolling them so she's underneath him, ensconced and safe, and begins to thrust in earnest, commanding the pace.

She slides a leg up from his waist to anchor it over his shoulder, and he rumbles agreeably, withdraws, and thrusts deep and hard with a long, shuddering stroke that reaches her very core. Abbie curses and clutches at him as she begs for him to do it again; and he does, harder. Faster.

They’re frantic now; the slow uncertainty of new lovers left far behind. This is a battle; a claim of ownership that’s been years in the making — centuries. Abbie braces herself with one hand against the headboard as he crashes into her. They’re knocking her bed against the wall; bedpost slamming so hard she’s gonna have to spackle the dents. But she doesn’t give a good goddamn, because he is big and thick and so deep, so fucking deep that she feels him thrusting up and against her heart, battering the last wall that she’s so carefully constructed around it. 

Climax tingles at the base of her spine and wends its way through her body, sending a shudder from toes to hips as she flutters around him in preparation. She can feel the wall cracking; can feel it all the way through her bones.

She's close. _God,_ so close. His fingers slide slick between them and brush at her center, his thrusts harsh and deep as he hitches her legs higher. He rises to his knees, suspending her against him as his feral eyes lock onto hers, a mixture of love and lust and sheer, open surrender. His red mouth is agape, spilling her name in a low, keening fugue, and God help her, but she can't look away. She wants to. She tries. But it's too late. He's driving intoher, _through_ her, his cock shattering the last great barrier that's kept her apart from him; from anyone who's ever tried to get this close.

The wall collapses. She comes apart.

“ _Ichabod!”_ For a moment, Abbie's body arches, frozen in freefall. And then she's gone, clamping down hard around him as her body comes alive, arms clutching and legs straining and eyes rolling in unabashed release. Crane pauses in arrested wonder as he feels her collapse around him, small sheath pulsing frantically in harsh throbs as she clings to him, nails trailing blood across his skin and mouth sinking hard into his neck as she attempts to muffle the deep, ragged cries that well up from within.

He kisses her deep, swallowing what he knows she won't say. That their fledgling loves is still buried too deeply within her for words; that it is almost too precious to attach voice to it and cheapen its meaning.

And so, he presses his lips to her eyes and cheeks and mouth as he bends her back, her legs over his shoulders, and speeds up. Her body is open, so open, accepting his increasingly harsh and erratic rhythm. Her hand is on his face, sweat-slicked, as she watches him through sated eyes.

"Come on, Crane."

He closes his eyes as he feels the telltale tightening; the tense draw-up of fluid and the sudden rush as he lets go. The world narrows to a single focus; her eyes, her mouth, her hands on his back, urging him forward.

"Abbie... _Christ, love. Yes."_ He shoves himself deep within her and shudders, eyes blown open wide as they lock onto hers. _Yes my love,_ he hears himself repeating as he spills into her, _yes, Treasure. Yes._ He feels her hips lift, small muscles clamping down as they will his release deep into the depths of her body. One day, he vows, he will fill her with children. One day, he will stake his claim permanently.

But for now, it is enough that he’s still fully buried, pulsing and twitching as he comes down, her arms sliding around him in soothing languor. He stays there, head on her chest, arms wrapped underneath her, sucking in gales of breath.

At length, he brushes her hair aside, lips flitting over her eyelids. “For all the tribulations we must endure, I am grateful that we have also been gifted this.”

She smiles. Smooths her hands up and down his body, trying to ignore the anxiety-ridden trail already paving its way through her mind. _For how long? Until when? And how_ —

“Cease your worry,” he murmurs. He makes to lift himself up, give her some breathing room, but she instinctively clutches him close. Their eyes share words — _Are you alright?; Don't you fucking move a muscle —_ followed by an amused eyebrow and quirked lips.

"Would you feel more at ease if you cuffed me to the bed, Leftenant?"

She yawns. "Don't tempt me, Crane. I got a pair I lost the keys to."

"Promise?" he whispers against her closed eyelids.

She twines her hands through his hair, weaving a strand around her ring finger. "Yeah. Promise."

 


End file.
